1
I am born
With no rain to prophesy
The way for my becoming
The still house
Leaning like ash
Into the wind.
It is no great birth,
But it will have to do.
Aunts & uncles
Twitter with rumors
The moon hangs
In its trice.
Even this plain event
Will not happen twice.
Europe rumbles with protest,
A fire half gone out.
I am indecent
& turn my bare rump
To the lunatic fringe,
Bellow at the sound
Of vanishing planes.
Dodo, lory & lobster,
Everything with noses
Press against the panes.
2
Surely, I cannot matter very much;
Whether I live or die
Will not upset the spinning
Of this world & where I touch,
My fingerprints will be dried
& wiped away. But I take my sinning
Seriously. Born in an overweight
Colony of New York,
Manhattan, to be precise
I smile at the humorous fates;
Praying among tides & wet
Rocks, I fish for a finicky muse,
& by formal senses am irreligious
Though my informal sense
Is a Cheshire of a different color:
A male Alice in Wonderland, my gracious,
Falling through the present tense
Down a hole to the world’s cellar.
Language in which I joke & rave
Will in turn fall into disuse
Snared by ages far more visual.
Where is the rabbit with his glove?
Before I succumb to LSD or abuse
The latest drug, allow these casual
Words to celebrate the sensual
& sensuous, articulate careers
Of bewilderment & celebration, putting
One’s house in order with essential
Loves & mercies. “Oh my ears
& whiskers, how late it’s getting.”
